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There is a day in winter when warmth and wetness first come together perfectly. It is Spring, though no calendar admits it. There is a surging up. And it always seems a Sunday.
By Patricia BralleyMarch 1981We have found that when we begin to turn towards or face our neurosis and unpleasant situations we become involved in working with ourselves and our conflicts in a meaningful way. When we no longer run from that which we are afraid there becomes the possibility of being responsible for our projections of aggression, ignorance, and fear.
By Richard Strozzi-HecklerMarch 1981March 1981Love is when I am concerned with your relationship with your own life, rather than with your relationship to mine. . . . There must be a commitment to each other’s well-being. Most people who say they have a commitment don’t; they have an attachment. Commitment means, “I am going to stick with you and support your experience of well-being.” Attachment means, “I am stuck without you.”
Stewart Emery
By home I mean the idea of re-inhabitation — an awareness of and loyalty to sense of place, and literally to a particular place. A place in Nature. A place of geography where one’s heart and inner machinery are filled with the silences of reality, and are at peace.
By Thomas Rain CroweFebruary 1981February 1981We have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness.
Herman Hesse, Steppenwolf
Remembering his music, carrying on, being true to the vision we share
By Our ReadersFebruary 1981This book asks one question over and over: how much consciousness is the poet willing to grant to trees or hills or living creatures not a part of his own species?
By Robert BlyFebruary 1981Oh you modest-living professional little bastards, giving in to all that mortgaged decency, all those inner rules of silence, as if the spirit of youth was an aberration to be got over and not the event itself, the event of your life, the adventure you ended up betraying for a house in Twit Acres and 2.3 kids you won’t ever understand.
By John RosenthalJanuary 1981Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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